Playing With Fire
by girlfromgraz
Summary: Falka and Vilkas use a clear morning in spring for a sparring lesson while Farkas tries to enjoy his breakfast.


_I'd like to take a moment to thank all of you who took the time to review and/or like my other Skyrim ffs. It means a lot to me - and motivates me to (finally) publish all those Falka/Vilkas tidbits I've written. Thank you!_

* * *

**Playing With Fire**

Balancing a plate full of food and with a tankard of cider in his hand, Farkas kicked open the back door of Jorrvaskr.

"Encore!" Vilkas' shout echoed across the yard.

Farkas sighed. Obviously, he hadn't been the first with the idea to catch some hours outside while the spell of dry weather lasted. And by the looks of it, his brother and Falka were just getting ready for a sparring session. Farkas hesitated for an instant, then stepped out anyhow, letting the heavy door fall close behind him. Neither Vilkas nor Falka noticed him as he crossed the patio, making himself comfortable at one of the small tables.

"Counter! And back! Good!"

Falka was going through a short series of sword forms, with Vilkas, who was standing just below the short flight of stairs, watching her every move. Her thick, woollen cloak – the one she'd sported over her leathers upon returning to them a few weeks earlier – flapped around her ankles. Way too warm for Farkas' taste, but the woman was always freezing. Her swings were calculated, though, Farkas noted as he bit into the still warm meat pie. Over the last months she had developed a good feeling for her blade, wielding it with ease and confidence. As she finished the series and pulled to a halt, Farkas saw his brother nodding approvingly.

"Well done," Vilkas praised her. "I know it's not exactly your natural fighting style, but I still want you to commit those moves to your muscle memory." Falka nodded. "And now," Vilkas drew the short sword he sometimes used in training sessions, "let's see those forms in a real fight, shall we?" He grabbed the shield that had been resting at his feet, and strode out onto the yard proper to meet her.

Excitement ghosted over Falka's lips. She shifted her sword to her off hand and drew a dagger from a sheath on her belt. Experimentally, she tossed it into the air and caught it again, as if testing it's weight. A cheeky grin lit on her face. Rolling his shoulders, Vilkas took up his position opposite of her. Falka mock-saluted him with the dagger and charged.

Munching on his pie, Farkas watched as the two fighters engaged in a series of blows. Usually, he didn't approve of dual-wielding fighting styles, especially with someone as inexperienced as Falka. But his brother's reasons were sound. Falka's natural fighting style didn't leave her with any place for a shield. Farkas popped a tomato into his mouth, his eyes never leaving the sparring couple in the yard. His brother allowed Falka to take the offensive role, using his shield to block most of the blows she dealt. Falka was quick, Farkas noted approvingly, and the endless hours of balance-training Vilkas had had her going through last autumn were starting to pay off.

"Good," he heard Vilkas grunt as Falka landed a cunning attack, one that his brother had not anticipated. Falka nodded in thanks before spinning away from Vilkas in a quick double-step. Without allowing her any time to adjust, Vilkas followed her retreat with a lunge and a subsequent series of swings, forcing her into a wild dance across the yard.

Farkas finished his meat-pie, nodding now and then at an especially cunning move from one of the fighters. For only a few months of intense training under his twin's supervision, Falka had become quite a decent fighter. Her skills had definitely improved since she'd first stumbled into their hall late last summer. There still was room for improvement, but that was to be expected. Vilkas and himself had been training with blades since they had been old enough to hold them, after all.

* * *

After some time, Vilkas put his weapon and shield down, signalling a break. "Good fighting, Red. It seems you're getting the hang of this after all," he teased.

"Oi!" Falka protested as she shrugged off her cloak.

"Getting hot already?" Vilkas quipped. Farkas couldn't see his brother's face, but he could easily imagine his expression – head slightly tilted to one side, left eyebrow raised high, and a slightly bored look on his face.

"Definitely not from the fight."

Vilkas snorted, tossing away his shield. "In that case – what about putting the stakes up a bit?"

Falka turned to stare at her sparring partner. Vilkas held her gaze, a smirk playing around his lips. Without breaking eye-contact, Falka sheathed her dagger. Taking a deep draught from his cider, Farkas watched as Falka took a few slow, calculated steps towards his twin. Even from his seat on the patio, Farkas saw the sparkle in her eyes. He shook his head at his brother's back, knowing full well what Vilkas was staring at. His brother hadn't been in his right mind for days.

Falka pulled to a halt in front of Vilkas. The sword in her off-hand entirely forgotten, the woman raised her right arm in the space between them. One smooth flick of her hand, and a ball of fire sat in her open palm.

"Sure you can take it?" Farkas couldn't help but overhear her challenge as he bit an egg in two. Currently distracted by the yolk running down his chin, though, he never saw the gaze Falka cast his brother from behind the flames.

Vilkas huffed a laugh. "You'd be surprised at what I can endure, Red."

Sighing, Farkas finished the egg.

Out in the yard, his twin took a few steps away from Falka and tossed the short sword aside. With a grand gesture, he yanked his huge, Skyforged sword from the sheath on his back.

Farkas huffed a laugh. "Show-off."

Vilkas let the heavy sword describe an arch in the air above his head. "You ready?"

The fire ball in Falka's palm brightened and idly caressed her hand. "Any time," she drawled, a cheeky grin on her face.

* * *

Swords clashed again as the duo started another round across the yard. This time, though, Farkas couldn't enjoy their display. His brother was easily one of the most skilled fighters he knew, and usually able to defend himself. Falka's firespells, though, made Farkas uneasy. As he tried to quell the sour taste in his mouth with a huge gulp of cider, he watched Falka launch another one of her spells in his brother's direction. And at the moment, Farkas doubted his brother clearly saw the risk he was taking. He hadn't even bothered to protect himself sufficiently against her magic.

And then, Vilkas took a hit. He winced, and shrugged the injury off with his usual stoicism, going straight for a counter attack against the fire-wielding mage. The attack was followed by a skilled parry from Falka, and fire again erupted in her palm. Vilkas didn't entirely manage to evade the flying missile, taking another nasty burn on his arm. Farkas knew he had to intervene.

Out in the yard, swords met and locked. Both combatants were panting heavily; Vilkas' deep gasps making the tiny braids of Falka's hair dance around her face.

"Are you all right?" she inquired, searching his eyes.

Vilkas' eyes narrowed at the worried tone. "I'm fine," he grunted. "You?"

"If it is too much, I can always switch back to the dagger," Falka offered.

Vilkas barked a laugh.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, Falka registered movement. A gush of cold water washed down over her sparring partner. Falka shrieked as a few random splashes found her. She was drowned out by Vilkas' holler, though. Everyone in Whiterun must have heard his scream. Falka's ears were ringing.

"What was that for?" Vilkas, water dripping from his face, yelled. "You bloody idiot!"

"Fire extinguishing," Farkas explained calmly, pushing Vilkas' sword out of his face.

"Are you insane?"

"You got burned! Where's your armour, anyhow?"

"Eorlund's repairing it," Vilkas sighed, allowing – no, forcing – reason to calm his anger. "Thanks," he grudgingly accepted the well-meant deed, "but I was fine." He shook himself, wiping the drops from his face.

Falka, watching, shivered.

"Where'd you get the water, anyhow?"

Farkas raised the empty bucket. "Tilma's washing water."

Speechless, his brother only shuddered once more, and made to turn around again. Farkas caught him by his wrist, though, twisting his twin's arm so that the red burns on his skin were exposed. Vilkas tried to pull out of the grip, but Farkas' terse lock on his wrist sent a wave of pain up his arm. He winced.

"Looks painful," Farkas only commented. "I hope you know what you're doing." And without another glance, he returned to his breakfast.

Vilkas shook his head at his brother's retreating back. Sometimes, it seemed to him Farkas simply tried to annoy— A warm touch on his arm snapped Vilkas' attention back. Caught by surprise, he jerked away from Falka.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" she shot back, impatience flaring up in her eyes. A globe of golden light dissipated from her palm.

Vilkas shot her a suspicious look, glaring at her from behind strands of wet hair.

"I take it somebody as experienced as you has seen a healing spell before?" At his remaining silence, a mischievous grin curled Falka's lips. "Do not you tell me you have got no reservations facing ball of fire but are afraid of a simple healing spell."

"I'm not."

"Then let me heal the burns." And without waiting for his consent, she grabbed his wrist just like Farkas had done earlier. This time, though, Vilkas didn't pull away, allowing Falka to conjure a healing spell, watching as her hand ghosted over his injured skin.

"How will you survive in Morrowind if you are afraid of a simple healing spell? If going there is still an option," Falka broke the silence as she allowed the spell to dissipate.

"I'm not afraid of them," Vilkas replied, pulling his arm out of her grasp. "And it still is. Going to Morrowind, that is."

A scoff replaced the look on Falka's face. "And what exactly do you expect to find there?"

"Honour."

Falka spat onto the ground between them. "There is no honour there. There is nothing there. Only death."

"Better die fighting there than grow old and soft here," Vilkas replied hotly, the scorn with which Falka spoke of the dream of his life fuelling his anger.

Falka barked a laugh. "Oh, you will die soon enough, if you go. From thirst and starvation and the heat, but certainly not by the hand of some foe."

Vilkas stepped closer, hissing into her face, "And you'd know all about that, whelp?"

"Might that I do," she retorted. This close, the grimace on Vilkas' face almost frightened her. His eyes bore into hers, narrowed to slits, the colour matching the hue of dark clouds boding heavy snowfall.

"And how'd you know of such things?"

Meeting his anger with equal fierceness, Falka swapped her sword from left to right, readying it for an attack. "Does it matter, wolf?"

Never breaking eye contact, Vilkas raised his sword in the space between them. They stared at each another, neither of them backing off. Falka blinked, and Vilkas charged. She managed to evade his initial attack, but even before she'd finished her parry, Vilkas attacked again. Gone was the playful undertone of their previous exchange as steel clashed on steel. The beads in Falka's hair clicked against each another, filling the air between clashes with a wild beat. Vilkas assaulted her mercilessly, his attacks fuelled by anger. At one point, he thought he heard Farkas shout though neither he nor Falka did pause to listen to reason.

* * *

Eventually, Falka managed to gain some distance, buying her the necessary distance to raise another fire spell. She shouted in anger as the instant she launched the missile Vilkas' way she knew it would dissipate a metre behind her opponent. The spell zoomed past him and made the stones crackle with heat. With a shout, her opponent raised his sword and lunged forward again. Falka stretched to meet his high thrust. In the last moment, Vilkas shifted his weight to kick at her feet. They almost went down then, panting heavily and weary from their vicious fight. More by mere luck than design, Falka shifted her weight. Instead of hitting her trailing foot, Vilkas only landed a kick on her other, staggering them both. Falka was quicker to recover, though, and seized her chance to overcome his defence. She swatted away the huge sword, spun around in a half circle, and crashed into his chest.

Vilkas staggered, then caught his footing by steadying himself on Falka's form. Panting, she stared into Vilkas' face, searching his eyes. The rage from before was gone. Vilkas tilted his head and raised his eyebrow. "So, why exactly does my going to Morrowind bother you so much?"

Falka shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I would not want to see you dead." She held his gaze for some moments more, feeling his breath on her face just as she waited for her own breathing to normalize. "So, I got you panting already?" she then quipped, the faint hint of a smile breaking her façade.

"In your dreams, Red."

A challenging grin ghosted over her face. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Ah, maybe not. Wouldn't want to shatter my dreams," Vilkas countered. "Nice work, though. I never thought you'd be up for it."

"Oh, I have learned a few things at the College."

"Did you?" And, putting on his most impassive mask, Vilkas asked, "Care to show me?"

Falka took a step away from him and stretched, sighing contentedly as her head fell back. "I am not sure you are up for that, wolf," she drawled.

"Aye, I'm already covering in fear over in the corner."

Falka smirked, took a deep breath, and Shouted. A whimpering noise reached them from inside the small watchtower that bordered their training yard. "So," she drawled, "what am I going to do with you now that Vilkas is gone?"

Vilkas barked a laugh, and attacked again.

* * *

Snow started to fall some time later. Falka interrupted their fighting, catching a snowflake on her open palm. "The broom should be blossoming by now," she mumbled, more to herself than for Vilkas' ears.

Vilkas lowered his sword and moved to stand next to her. "You miss it?"

"Hammerfell?" Hesitantly, Falka nodded. "The country, aye. The flowers in spring, the wind from the sea, the smell—" She bit her lip, interrupting herself.

"And its people?" If Vilkas did notice, he did not comment on her sudden hesitation.

Falka's features hardened. "Hardly." She spat on the ground, and turned her back on him. The coldness in her voice made Vilkas pause for a moment. His next question died on his lips and he watched as Falka gathered up her cloak, buying herself some time.

"I guess it never snows in Hammerfell, does it?"

"Never." Falka raised her head, and a few snowflakes settled on her face. "It never gets so bloody cold, either."

"You must hate it here, then," Vilkas suggested.

"In Skyrim?" She shrugged into her coat.

"Aye."

Falka raised her head, searching Vilkas' eyes. "The sun never shines warm enough, and even its people are cold and distant. And yet…" She hesitated, and he could watch as the harshness on her face melted like snow in spring. "And yet, it is beautiful. Breath-taking. Amazing. The emptiness, the loneliness of the tundra – it carries a calm I have not found anywhere else."

Vilkas couldn't help but stare at her, open-mouthed, as she spoke of his country with such unexpected warmth.

"Everything here is cold as ice," Falka continued, and for an instant, an impish grin ghosted over her face, "but I guess that has kept you honest. Direct. You do not beat around the bush like my people do. You cut straight to the case. There is no place for false… ornaments here."

"It's a hard life, aye," Vilkas agreed, finding his speech again. "Though…" He watched as the snowflakes melted on her face.

"What?"

"I guess I'll miss more than Skyrim's nature when I leave," he joked. "The beer, for instance."

Falka laughed. "Aye. And you would be right about that, too."

"What do you miss the most?"

She hesitated, and Vilkas could watch as she clammed up again. "I thought this was meant to be a sparring lesson, master-of-arms."

Vilkas shrugged. "Can you blame a man for his fascination of the exotic?"

A smirk spread over Falka's features, and the bitterness from before vanished as quickly as it had come. "So I did manage to break through that cold exterior of yours?"

"I thought you'd never notice, Red," Vilkas countered, mock-sighing. "I must be slipping. You've usually got the perception of a frost giant."

"Oi!" Falka complained. She raised her sword, and spun around to land a hit on her sparring partner. Her volte, though, had left Vilkas with enough time to ready himself for the oncoming hit. He parried the blow with his sword and again, they took up their dangerous dance across the yard.

* * *

The snowfall grew heavier, and the two warriors decided to call it a day.

"I miss to food," Falka admitted as she crossed the yard with Vilkas.

"Huh?"

"From Hammerfell? I miss the food."

Vilkas stopped in mid-step. "What's wrong with Tilma's cooking?"

"It is all… so sweet. Mild. There's no spice in it," Falka fished for words, trying to explain herself.

"You miss the food?" He echoed her statement in disbelief.

"Aye."

Vilkas stood there, facing Falka, and watched as snowflakes settled on her dark hair. "But you never thought of going back?"

A brief, pained look crossed Falka's face. "Not really, no," she admitted, shivering. "Besides," she snorted and started towards Jorrvaskr again, "I doubt the Dragonborn would get away with running from her fate, would she?"

"I guess not," Vilkas admitted, a faint trace of humour in his voice. "We'd never find another one willing to take the job in time."

Together, they strode up the stairs onto the patio. It was empty safe for Farkas, and he only cast them a weary look over the rim of his plate.

"Breakfast? Still?"

"Lunch," Farkas replied, chewing. "I thought you'd kill yourselves out there."

"Nah," Vilkas shrugged, echoed by Falka.

"Besides," she added, grinning from ear to ear, "it would be a waste of your brother's…" Falka shifted her gaze to look at Vilkas, "assets."

Vilkas' left eyebrow rose, though the rest of his face remained stoic. "Glad we see eye to eye on this, Red."

Falka laughed. Her reaction, though, was spoiled by the goosebumps running down her arms. She pulled her arms around herself, shuddering. "I need a bath," she stated and started to leave.

"What – and no invitation?"

Falka halted. "Never imagined you to bathe," she retorted, before finally vanished inside Jorrvaskr.

Next to him, Farkas huffed a laugh and pushed a tankard of cider towards Vilkas. "She's really got you, doesn't she?"

"Nah— Aye." A smile ghosted over Vilkas' face. "You know, I think she might."

"Just… be careful when playing with fire, will you?"


End file.
